Monday, March 25, 2019


The trees—do not come back here
without intensest kind of hunger,
without their fear of an everlasting
night, without fully expecting

to lose all of their proud currency
and to stand there, eventually, as
blind and petrified monuments
to poverty. And so—neither do we

leave, without completely losing
control of every appetite,
without forgetting the smooth feel
of the seeds of our anger, without

laying down those heavy
strapped purses and bulging back
pocket wallets which we use
to conceal and carry around the calcified

marginalia of sorrow—and somehow,
without fully expecting
never to ourselves become the neat virgin
plats which might feed them next year.

Sunday, March 24, 2019


Saturday nights in the city,
we catch one another
glancing up

at the glossy wrought iron
black gate of sky,
pretending not to be

hunting for stars—as if
privately trying,
by the vague light of their ailing halos,

to discover some sliver, a half-
buried arrowhead, one milky brittle
fossil of fingernail signaling

those directions we all forgot
together—five, ten, maybe twenty
million years ago.

Saturday, March 23, 2019


Still bare Chicago
gums quiver

and reach
to thrust
their talons into

tender blueskies
and thrumming


Friday, March 22, 2019


these morning walks
are getting dangerous—there, I said it.
There is so much
fierce wind up here

on the high wire of the mind! And I
admit, I am far more eager
than graceful—god knows things
are always a little

less pretty than they appear from
ground-level. But the
truth is, it's still
a perfect miracle—I continue to move

like some
parasitic amoeba would: with my
entire body, one fly-by-night pseudo-
pod at a time.

Thursday, March 21, 2019


I had a dream. I met
my great great grandfather
on a dismal New England shore.
He was a whaler—

a grim dogged hunter
of grotesque blubber. But now
he'd grown
half-blind and old,

and his industry was dying.
I could see holes
in his gloves, and in between
his teeth as he spoke—

it's so cold, and so dirty
and dark where I'm living;
I only wanted to make soap
and sell my fine candles, he told me.

I tried to console him—
don't loose hope.
It came out—don't give up

Wednesday, March 20, 2019


Speak, if you
can speak

to the voiceless dog
those vast
tongueless forests—of

human nature
as it is;

or else
keep silent
and just do your best

to imagine it
as it was.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019


i am fine
never knowing
where you go
when you go
only that you do
not go
away for good

just like you
are fine too
once i come
since you knew
when i came
i came to stay
that way too

Monday, March 18, 2019


Hands plunged
deep in the silver kitchen
sink again, cold

water touches them
and flows, and I think,
or really, don't—

this is all completely
made of holes;

subsisting by kind permission
of a temporary
dearth of original ideas—most

weekdays, nesting
in those empty spaces
in the middle of certain vowels
where a certain wind blows

nothing but the chunk
of wind that had just a moment ago
come blowing,

nothing but its own
hollow cartoon
sound of wind-blowing,

nothing but—every suspicion
of its own lack of essence
out of existence.

Saturday, March 16, 2019


What in this world
have I ever truly loved?

A sunrise
Sunday morning

batter smell

the plagal
cadence of folk

mass songs
or the lone

crow's call? So
I've heard—the blackbird 

is involved 
in what I know,

but I don't
have the smallest

chance in

of knowing—what

she believes
at all.

Friday, March 15, 2019


There's a storm in the forecast.
There are ideas, and then
there are things. My sadness says—
I am not concerned; I am contented 
looking at old postcard photographs 
of lilacs on Mackinac Island. 

There's a storm on the way.
The windowpane is foggy and quivering
like a kid's lower lip. My lack of belief
regards the horizon and
states flatly—I am not mad, I am
simply unwilling to talk about it.

There's a storm raging outside.
Buckets of rain gush down.
My incredulity is staring
out the window, slack-jawed
at this spontaneous abandon
of prudence and caution.

After a while, my confusion
finally asserts itself
and professes its
now-incontestable feeling
that better place 
than this—must exist.

Thursday, March 14, 2019


Scientists say—
the middle of something

can't really be measured;
the heart of a process

has a process at its heart,
and you can always

keep zooming in, perpetually
chop it apart

and find smaller pieces.
Which is why,

instead of declaring,
I've always been fine

with just guessing—
that the farther

and farther
out I'd go spinning,

the more dependent I'd grow
on that tiny grain of sand

which lent the pearl
its mystery, that invisible

talisman of confidence
which doesn't exist,

that hole between the lips
of an old first kiss:

my exact center
of mass—

wherever it was
or is.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019


That lakeside park smell—
of jogger sweat
and hot dogs sailing

mildly on the mossy air;
we stop for lunch—
or maybe

just umbrella
stand tea somewhere
verdant in between

the strange alabaster of
pillared museums.
For a beat or two,

we each stop talking,
having balanced
our hollow bodies

so precisely on that
inadequate sliver
of sunbeam straddling

our over-examined
insensible future.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019


Nothing like
a delicate
white cup of coffee—
black as the morning
sky is cerulean,
with steam arabesque-ing
ladders to heaven
above the attendant
and mortally-
still kitchen table—
to make you feel
that you might
(somehow, someday,
in a whole other kitchen,
painted completely
from this one)
still fall in love
with the life
you have left.

Monday, March 11, 2019


The problem is I love you
with that hunk of me which is

that perfect romantic steak dinner
which is perpetually
still cooking,

with a will that is always
changing and never
was mine to begin with

and lives high up
in the master bedroom of a
dwelling place that is temporary,

a shit apartment, adequate for
a scrawny underfed spirit,
a small body that doesn't physically exist;

no limbs, no tongue
with which to speak
or lick, to taste the dream of air

that floats between the words we say
and those we no longer
say to each other—and

this thing, this stinted love,
this phantom child of us,
I can only guess

must be: so holy, so miraculous
that it still exists, even though it was
never born—at least not yet.

Friday, March 8, 2019


The city park was finally electrified;
the temperatures had been rising

since early in the morning.
At two, the clouds finally yawned

wide open, allowing fresh sunlight
to come sliding down along

last night's imperious snowdrifts; its
mellow glint, gently blotting out

all of our sharp-cornered thinking.
Everywhere we looked, we saw

nothing—but the bewildering
dignity of very real things.

Every time we paused
to think back, we could recall only

the sound—of laughing
invisible children.

Thursday, March 7, 2019


Generally speaking,
we are all
the same—whole pieces
who like fitting tight

in those dark parts
of the universe—the ones we've seen
in NASA pictures, in between
the superclusters;

we seem to enjoy
not being seen, while we gaze out
at all the other stars, which seem so
much better than ours;

and we don't mind
feeling helpless—though we do dislike
how awkward
being helpless feels.

But more than anything,
we just love
not talking about it. It's true—once
we were wounded,

but now we don't want
to be healed; all we want is: not to be
wounded in that
exact same place again...eventually.

Wednesday, March 6, 2019


Though grateful
to share a scrap of day
or night together,

I wish
I could go where it is
you go after—

mind lying
wide open and redolent
as a shaggy field at high noon;

body parked and idle,
agreeable as
a wood-paneled station wagon

parked in a vacant
lot by the ocean;
mouth hanging so

cleanly open, unpolluted
by words. Sometimes, I call you
but you don't call yourself anything.

Some days I don't call myself
anything either—at least
not anymore.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019


It's true what they
say, you know—

all roads
lead to Rome—

which, by
the way, is scheduled—

with every bit
as alluring a mix

of exactitude
and casualness—

to burn
and crack-

up, and hemorrhage
and collapse—

at some
pathetic moment

your visit.

Monday, March 4, 2019


Off the back
porch red railing, a
chip-toothed piano

keyboard of
old icicles dangling

by the sparrows; those
little bits

of lyrical
language about suffering—

proclaiming: very little

of their context.
Those things

which help us
suffer less—
we'll eventually have

to stop
abusing them too.

Friday, March 1, 2019


Whenever we sit
together, touching or not
touching, I don't ever wish
to be any wiser
or dumber than I am at that
particular moment—

right, but maybe
wrong; thinking, but then, not
thinking; breathing, or else
waiting for our
next turn to breathe;

we together
animate the spirit—of some
third and
immaculate person,

a perfectly faithful and
loving companion, who wants not,
who alone is capable of wearing
our invisible ring,

and who, finally, is fed and nourished
by every dynamic rhythm
of our being perpetually
a little out of sync—

and to think: all of this hocus-pocus
without the need for any
magic words or provisos or
vestigial ribs.

Thursday, February 28, 2019


It's a profound moment when
that first morning dawns, in which
everything we once loved is

still dead—and yet, there suddenly
exists simultaneously the impossible
feeling that, one day, it might not be;

that soon, a new season will reanimate
even our even the most hopeless-
ly insubordinate of subjects;

that right now, we are only living
in the breath before the first rusty
note of a new song is sung;

and that, for now, we might
just be content—
to sip coffee inside
draped in lamplight

and to gaze out the window
and witness, with no small
satisfaction—the exhilarating
stillness of objects.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019


Though the journey
is unspeakably long,
every morning
he seems to arrive here

all of a sudden—
as if he were running
from a brushfire closing
in from behind—

to a place that isn't exactly
a remote cave inside
some auspicious
Tibetan mountain;

where not a smudged and
excellent water lily—but
rather, the mass-
produced print of one,

hung behind the single-
serve coffee maker—
marks the location,
instantiates the routine ceremony

of the cut-
off and the dying.
Outside, there's always
the squeal of brakes,

the hoary moan of commuter
trains arriving
exactly on time—
each one, an ardent

horn playing taps 
purely by reflex,
but in some eerily off-
putting minor key.

Tuesday, February 26, 2019


Consider the possibility—
most words don't really
want to be written.

They must be
yanked up here
forcibly, one at a time—like

some monstrously
ugly green pike—
to struggle and flop

across the asphyxiating surface
of our silence's little
cup-shaped boats

from a river which,
on paper, doesn't exist.
Out here, I am a nameless

worker, just like
all the others, toiling alone
in my hollowed-out silence.

Nobody not from that universe
is even listening to this, no one
here watching, or daring

to stop me—damming
up the desert
in order to fish.

Monday, February 25, 2019


Here he comes now, the world-
famously untroubled
hot air balloon pilot—

old-time goggles
made of leather, big white
scarf, the whole nine yards—

back down here, one supposes,
for a quick spell on the
drab crowded planet

to do a little
laundry, buy some
eggs, check the mail, et cetera.

Here's to survival, to never hearing
anyone; here's to the most successful-
ly lonely man in existence, I salute

silently to the Hollywood vanity mirror
recently installed in the bathroom—
while somebody else, who must be

somewhere far away from here
is calling, nearly yelling—good morning! 
you handsome devil.

Friday, February 22, 2019


I'd like to come back 
as a stream 

of hot 
coffee—neatly falling 

into a spotless concavity 
of tall white china;

I want everything around me 
to seem invisible 

just for a moment, 
while I glitter 

more reassuringly 
than crystalline 

wine in gold goblets;
for once, I might know 

what it would feel like 
to carry you

over the threshold 
into a new home, in which 

you are always
smart and cozy 

and happy 
and successful—and I

am simply 

Thursday, February 21, 2019


Little Honda
flying through open
country at some hellish speed,

seeing the blurry steeples poking
small harmless wounds
through the mist in the distance;

I am not on my knees
listening to those
bells ring. I am one last

flickering laugh, I outlast
the flight of mourning

this engine is
the chorus of
a thousand boy bands singing,

that glint of light
on the road ahead, all that's good
and left

of someone they all
once knew
and loved.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019


In your eyes,
I see—the perfect
slender beach

where you must
be lying

stranded—and nowhere
near me.

Tuesday, February 19, 2019


On those clearest
cold mornings, there's always
somebody else's
shadow in here with me,

drinking coffee in a perfectly
chintzy Ikea chair 
and gazing out the window at
freshly fallen snow

while I write
by curving
lines of light
those weapons of the enemy;

about a million
miles away from Never Land, I
nonetheless feel
the warm dark's absence,

but I feel this
as a presence. As if—
together, we are neither
body nor mind, but

a third thing.
Separately, of course, we
could never be

Monday, February 18, 2019


don't cross me,
I'm bisexual
and spineless—like the fierce tiger

lily is bisexual,
like the venus
fly trap is spineless—nonetheless

and ready somehow always,
fixed in the very

same graveyard-
jungle of shade
where I was made

to stay—deep,
quiet, and strange-
ly well protected.

Friday, February 15, 2019


My mind is a tree, grown slowly
heavy with its
own maturity; its sole

and noble
purpose is—the invention of luscious
redolent fruit;

fruit so huge-
and exquisitely
pregnant with ingenious seeds—that its

only goal
could possibly be
a tree.

Thursday, February 14, 2019


Every afternoon,
after a long morning walking
around, thinking about

all the cherished people
and things I'm too afraid to allow
myself to think about now,

I walk back into this house to find
pure sound lying
all over the floor again—

radios spilling over
with their mixture of lean tunes
and marbled static,

blaring furnaces, hissing
water heaters, and sinister fridge compressors
whispering—not to mention

the incessant hollow drip-dropping
of so many ticker-tape
timers, unnerving alarms, chirpy alerts;

every day, I come home to all this
and I swear
I barely even notice it—let alone

approaching anything
differently tomorrow.

Wednesday, February 13, 2019


In the park
right now, simple
white snow

is caked up nice
and thick and capably—on a fat
spruce tree's bluish branches;

and that's about
all I know—after I
finally stand up

and look down
at the pale dead thing
splayed on the kitchen table

to consider—just what the
hell it is I
haven't been writing.

Tuesday, February 12, 2019


I know I know I know.
I know I still need those same
infantile changes—

the warm
and soft and
wet sort of premonitions—which I fear the most.

But I am not worried
I am not worried
I am not worried—I lie

all night, while I
sleep and
dream of being

again, so buoyant-
and easily—somewhere cool cool cool,

cock-crowing, off
on that pale last star glimmering
in the tender aurora of a new morning

as—the insouciant future
of this miserably
persistent family.

Monday, February 11, 2019


Annoying little
pebble in my shoe—
this too

is a kind of nirvana,
born from some
forced and self-

conscious point of view—the way
the hugeness of
what's old gets

by the new.

Friday, February 8, 2019


The story opens this way: my brain—a sleepy
old river town, inundated late last year
by weeks of cold

and sharp pointed rain—
which is still, to this day, flooded
with your memory.

The residents there have just had
to get used to the trench foot, the detours
and the closed stores

the bowed walls of yellow
tubular sandbags—the Sunday dinners
coming from tin cans.

All their backyard victory gardens
are, of course, still under there somewhere
and surely aren't ruined forever, but

nobody's holding their
breath at the moment, because—it's exhausting
enough just having to paddle

around everywhere in these makeshift vessels
on the opaque surface
of the way things were before.

Thursday, February 7, 2019


So it's dreary out
in the contorted pocket

of the pinball machine
city where you

lurk in the morning—still you can
smell it: the cigarettes

and burnt french
toast sticks—clinging to the grimy air,

wordlessly infiltrating
a dead-pigeon situation:

to careen around, lost in the
maze of creation

is never a waste of time;
it's more—lying

down and staying
put where you are

that could
really cost you bigtime.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019


Almost midway
to March again—soon, the
days are breaking faster

while the tightfisted
nights are still
greedy enough with cold

to keep the wounds
from festering—the wounds
which lie

deep in the winter-rough
hollows of our hearts, which
themselves of course

are breaking—at more
or less the same rate
as before.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019


This frozen far-
flung constellation

of February
breadcrumb flurries:

right here—is the entire

to all
the midwest finches,

who were, perhaps
a little

too damaged—
or else just

too self-
centered—to withdraw.

Monday, February 4, 2019


The bankrupt country
of my body,
having survived another long war
of sleep,

in slow to recall
its crumbling navies—across the veins
of dark salty water

and into harbors, where
all the citizens stand, sleepy and stuff
but dutifully
attendant on the shore.

But upon their arrival,
an august parade
is always quick to follow—joyous
and manic, it careens along
the corridors of

the warm dark kitchen—and over
the bathroom's
cold tile floor, to the place
where the fireworks are traditionally scheduled.

Friday, February 1, 2019


You tell me—
it's never been colder,
that your malaise

and despair
are climbing higher
and higher, like

pillars of icy fire
consuming the bare tree trunks
in this small municipal park

where once, little children's
cleanhanded voices
would ricochet—like crickets

over that pungent grass
which now lies frozen
in absolute darkness,

obliterated by winter's
onslaught of avalanches.
But listen,

and look—here
and there, at least
there are still finches,

round as planets
and living
in the few stony bushes

which ring its perimeter—
how warm!

they can manage
to keep, just by
cheering one another

on in their
piquant hopping—dare-
devilish and constantly

switching—from branch
to steely,
obdurate branch.

Thursday, January 31, 2019


Sometimes, the drain
is the only way out.
Sometimes, the last days
offer our best chances—when everything living
swoons and dances
to that music, not which
is prettiest, but which is headed
for the most auspicious ruin.

Even Franz Schubert
might still compose himself better
as a butterfly someday; his newly
reanimated tune: two bright blue-
glowing wings, extending
to catch the comatose
afternoon light—come some balmy
June or July.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019


The end looks
like this, I think—
none of that profound fire
and pressure of slow
grinding wheels;

instead, all is white,
and clean with cold,
save those
slight shadows—
the odd arc of gulls

obscuring the light
over the frozen footsteps—
those ghostly rows
and columns of yesterday's intent.

our bodies are all trapped
and peering, offended, from inside—
tattered and impoverished
as zombies
whose very sensibilities are starving,

whose every pore is thirsting
for a return
to that warm dark heaven
which must have existed—before
we were born.

Tuesday, January 29, 2019


I know—the face of the earth 
is only an idio-
matic expression

but the place is so vast, I confess
I get scared
to look, let alone

gaze—let alone choose
where I'm going
to stay.

They say, even vandals
are great artists too, in their
own beautiful way

and that we must each
invent our own instruments,
and that it's okay

to just use the verses
to get to
the chorus—but

I confess, in lieu
of songs—I'd sooner make
drowsy non-

linear poems
like this one
when I want to

cultivate a little chaos,
in which
there's no chaste aesthetic

or dramatic
point of view;

just me.
All alone.
With you.

Monday, January 28, 2019


In all directions, the blankest
faces—not of death, but
imagination, of old ingenuity

now breathless and perfect-
ly preserved in
fresh ice. And the mute snow—

holding fast and glaring
up at the cloud-shrouded aspect
of some meek and

underfed January sun,
while the wet wind combs
and rakes the accumulation into rows,

and the skinny buildings
of in the distance, groom
and mold that same prodigal wind.

At last, all is clean
and nameless and new—
and visible across the grounds

are only a few
dappled traces—
but absent are the usual

accompanying sounds—
of several million human
beings trying.

Friday, January 25, 2019


Okay, I confess—for years now, I've
been selfish-
ly keeping my
thoughts to myself

in order to write them
down on paper and pitch them
at you later—as if: mine
were the one true point of view

and a short, well organized poem
was the highest possible
peak you could climb;
the perspective from nowhere,

and as such, the only one
you could trust; the dead center
of the universe—something much
more usefully observed than discussed.

Earlier this morning, for instance,
I carefully reasoned
that today was the perfect
day for sweatpants; then wandered over

and wondered into the bathroom mirror
whether I could ever get away with
an authentic handlebar mustache;
then, in the kitchen, carefully weighed

all my coffee grounds
out to the decigram; and finally—
endeavored to imagine
just what it could look like

if I rearranged all
the furniture in the living room,
before deciding I felt a little too
uninspired to bother.

Thursday, January 24, 2019


Econoline van, midnight
blue, with a ladder
on the roof and a yellow-
ish hardhat or two on the dash,

how many times? have I
seen your kind double
parked on the clenched-
shouldered avenues of Chicago

and thought—maybe unrequited
love and/or hunger, credit card
debt and lumbar pain don't
always matter; sometimes there's a place

at the end of a very
long and slate-
gray basement corridor, a room
that only one person has the keys to.

Forget about the logistics, and
never mind the weather—one waist,
belted-up tight with the right gear
has waded out this far regardless.

There's a hole in my sock
that's been swallowing me for hours
and my lips are so chapped
they're about to crack open—but

one mouth can confidently disclose
what's most likely
wrong with the washer/dryer,
where the conduit goes,

why the locks froze, how all those
hoses are supposed to hook
up to the furnace.
Somewhere—perfectly at home

within the hopeless folds
of any one of these condos—
is one voice that knows
exactly what it's talking about.

Wednesday, January 23, 2019


Only because
it's now been
so long, I'm not even
sure what I should
picture myself
missing anymore.

Most days—
which is to say, specifically
during business hours—
which is to say, most
of the time I'm awake—

the writer in me—
hunched at a table, comforted only
by the aroma of coffee
and by punching
some keys
and seeing the immediate
results on a screen—that person

most sorely laments
a lack
of sonorous diction
and syntax: the
you and me, the
she and I, the
hers and my, and so forth.

In other words—it's not the images
which are missing;
it's the style
and the pattern
of certain, very useful
idiomatic expressions.

It's just later on,
after night falls,
that I tend to finally
knock off

to sleep and dream—
through that hazy poetic halo
of pensive noise
and ruminative distortion
for five or six
or maybe seven seasons
at a stretch

purely about the face
of any
particular person
or place
or thing
or belief
or reason.

Tuesday, January 22, 2019


Once, there was this simple
and sweet little toddler, and he
liked to eat honey
all by itself—right out out of the little
bear-shaped jar.

Then, there was his grousing
seventy-year-old grandpa—bushy
brusque Italian, hair
like white feathers, skin like leather
furniture after a fire

who smelled of pungent things
like whiskey and world war
and medicine, and who seemed
to require everything
he ate doused in vinegar.

But at this point
there only seems to be, for better
or worse, me—
seated somewhere
midway in-between them

at the empty rectangular
table in the kitchen, eating
a little rice and broccoli
with some bland breast of chicken
and desperate to point out,

to nobody in particular—that nothing
in the world would be better
than a few healthy spoonfuls
of both
mixed together.

Monday, January 21, 2019


shut the blood

red cover—
What's the use

of History? I wonder,
it doesn't

my mother once.

Friday, January 18, 2019


though it's
freezing cold, the look

on my face
in the window
of your home—is blank

as a page,
on which
has been written, over

and over again:
it's good to be alone 
it's good to 

be alone it's good 
to be alone it's 
good to be alone—now please won't

you let me
come back
in already.

Thursday, January 17, 2019


First of all, there's really no such thing
as the temporal significance of anything;
everything's just an accident, a downstream
coincidence of Gregorian circumstance.

And speaking of accidents—images
are not really treacherous; they just get weird-
ly slippery after a while. Let's take her
for example, slowly tripping

up the stairs from a pea-yellow
bedroom in the basement, mumbling
something like happy 
anniversary from the bathroom

an electric toothbrush buzzing in her mouth;
me in the kitchen, probably reciprocating,
me definitely
having some coffee ready.

Now, let's cut to—the sun
eventually lying down, bloody
and exhausted, to warm the earth
somewhat differently for a while.

Suddenly, nourishment is nothing
like what it looks like.
There's so much less to it
than we thought a little bit ago. Now,

it's basically the ambient temperature
on the surface of our skin
which shows us—invisibly
but substantially—how.

Wednesday, January 16, 2019


Some days,
it's alright—you
are light,

literally made
of invisible star parts;

but even
then, of course, there's
those hours

slightly less
in nature—you're a transparent case

of mismatched leftovers.

Tuesday, January 15, 2019


Lumpy coffee
cup—made of clay
and grape

paint and enamel—from the
you look fake;

but on the inside, just
incredible—vacant, but like
nebulae are vacant,

like time
would look, all
looped and piled up—

like the expression
on the face
of the interstellar water

as it regards, by way
of reflection: an ape
standing straight

up in the morning,
stretching, walking, then
plunking down again—to hammer the bones

of a lyric
poem out
on a smartphone.

Monday, January 14, 2019


     "That music is intensest which proclaims
     The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,
     And of all the vigils musing the obscure,
     That apprehends the most which sees and names"

     -Wallace Stevens 

Lying awake
at night, in a room with
no window

just thinking—somewhere
else, the bright
moon is showing

off her halo;
somewhere, the shadows
below tip their

black hats, or else
the silence is not nearly

this shallow,
or other, it must be still

that deep and dream-
silent kind

of snow, those
feathery little piano
arpeggios—falling clean

and clinging,
to the surface of a glass
and steel city

with a much
more beautiful
name—than Chicago.

Friday, January 11, 2019


Before you believe what
you're told—
feel your feet

against the ground,
listen far
left, then

right to the sounds,
raise your eyes
and look

for the sky—and realize, you're
being gently

Thursday, January 10, 2019


If I wasn't so tired and quiet
and conspicuous-
feeling—all goose pimples
and rumpled underwear,

I might stand and shout
out the chilly bay window—
take it all back!
at the exacting light,

which, with its usual knife-
edged insensitivity,
is presently quizzing
all the neighboring

brick walls, needling
the street beneath, and
splitting the precious hairs of these
blunt stone hours

into cheap and hurried-
feeling moments—like this, each
one a little too sharp for my
taste in the morning.

Wednesday, January 9, 2019


Pursuant to the new year, a rude
cigarette lying
out on the sidewalk still burning,

its curled gossamer
floss of smoke, the cherry
on top, so elemental

yet conclusive
as the profligate
ribbon on a gift—which

you've done so little
to deserve,
it unnerves you to accept

such an absolute
surge of dry lust, a sudden kindling
of entitlement 

to be—someplace warmer
than this is, at least. And a third
cup of coffee.

Tuesday, January 8, 2019


God save the thin woman
in the longest parka imaginable

bisecting the lowly
wind outside my window;

that spectacularly inflated
little royal fountain

of a Pomeranian-Shih-tzu
gurgling along beside her

likely requires
someone truly special

to clean the interminable
gunk from the

corners of its eyes—
if not the matted

shit from its
jubilant coat—routinely,

without somehow
growing too humble

to keep scheduling
public demonstrations.

Monday, January 7, 2019


Here you go, son;
here's your very own
loaded gun—

now remember, an eyeball
never stops seeing
what it looks at,
even with its heavy lid blinked;

so be sure to be
careful with
where you choose to point it—

and by careful, I mean steady;
and by steady,
I mean absolutely
certain that you're right;

and by certain, I mean

and by right, I mean not
too unhappy.

Friday, January 4, 2019


No wonder a few hundred
years—or a thousand
are still
not enough to learn from:

how did she look
when she first heard the news
horse-powered from the border
a few weeks too late?

what was his first thought
when that cold rain which fell earlier
suddenly caught
the light of a blue moon?

History has no
people in it.
Only pictures—and, of course

words—doing things,
following certain

Thursday, January 3, 2019


As a puppet is free
because he cannot look up
to see the strings,

as a seer voraciously rereads
and memorizes page 35
in order to predict 36

in a huge holy book
whose conclusion already exists
somewhere around 500—so too

every night, in our dreams
so many unwritten poems
gleam on the knife edges of the horizon

while our shuttered eyes are powerless
to read them. Yet
silent, incorporeal, ghosts move to visit

each of these dark cities
off in the distance,
populated with divorcees and fugitives

and orphan children—
whose histories are long epics,
the lines of which will change slightly

with each new generation, because
they must be sung
in order to be remembered.

Wednesday, January 2, 2019


Mornings, the guy is basically toothless
and quiet: all black
coffee and no talking, thank you.

By afternoon, though, he's
so through
with contemplating that sermon of serene sky,

and, much like the light in the windows
gradually twisting pallid, then chilly,
and finally cruel, his mouth too starts twisting

toward the shape of the new vulgarian's—one
who's so ruthlessly "past all that"
and who is presently

howling out-loud at the neon heaven glow of
internet television—or else
hunching over to hellishly

wolf down helpless sprats,
all uniformly slashed, preemptively
decapitated, and buried

two tons-deep beneath
the brutish crust of some ancient stone-
ground mustard.